Live and let go
by LovelyParadise256
Summary: He laughs, a hollow sound devoid of humor that resonates throughout the room in a haunted melody, but it's still better than crying, he thinks. There's been way too much of that lately.


Clay laughs, a hollow sound devoid of humor that resonates throughout the room in a haunted melody, but it's still better than crying, he thinks.

There's been way too much of that lately.

So he laughs again, louder this time, as though the sheer increase in intensity could somehow trick him into feeling something – anything. A flickering, silly hope that the charade he presented to the outside world could somehow blend with his conscious and allow him to experience the mirth and joy that disappeared the moment the new girl turned into the dead girl.

It's stupid, he knows, to think he could trick himself as easily as the others, but at this point, he figures he'd try anything.

He laughs because this is all just so _hilarious_. It's all so fucking _funny_. His parent's increasing concern for his deteriorating mental health, the promise Tony forced from him to ensure he did not anything 'stupid', his will to live, it was all just so _comical!_ Jokes! Why wouldn't he laugh? How couldn't he?

 _Because, he knows the moment he stops he'll cry._

The faint chime of a clock somewhere in the house notifies Clay of the time – it's midnight, he suddenly thinks, the cascade of disturbing chuckles slowly dwindling until nothing more than soft rasps escape the boy, temporarily reminding him that his throat was rather dry.

When was the last time he had drank something? Or even ate something for that matter?

For a moment he's not certain which is worse, the fact that he _can't_ remember or the fact that he simply doesn't _care_ enough to _try_.

He hates that inability to care, he hates the soft bed nestled so lovingly under him that he still could not find sleep on, he hated the room that he still could not find solace in, but most of all, he hated the fact that he can feel the desire to laugh resurface once more.

Tony should be happy, he thinks, blank eyes glaring unfairly at the ceiling above, he was abiding by his promise. He was _alive_ , he was just _fine_ , actually, why would he believe any differently?

Don't do anything stupid, huh? Unfortunately, he already had – he had fallen in love with a girl he believed to flare with life and yet had only gotten burned once that life was extinguished, because, apparently, the flame had been diminishing before his eyes for so long, he just was too useless - _oblivious_ \- to notice it until it was smothered all together; snuffed out by those jealous of the life blazing in those light eyes.

So he laughs again at the sheer irony of the situation, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the strain, and he smiles.

Yes, he keeps laughing until tears drip down his cheeks because, for one moment, he could almost pretend that they were not evidence of _sorrow_. Even when his laughter fades to sobs and, ultimately hiccups, he grins because he was almost _happy_.

Before the sobbing came the laughter, the soft twinkle that once dribbled from rosy lips as Hannah regarded him with joy.

Just like his, her laughter slowly morphed into agony, but unlike Hannah, Clay wasn't strong enough – wasn't _brave_ enough to kill himself.

She was always the _strong_ one, he realizes as an arm rises to roughly dry away the tears that still form through closed eyes. So strong that she managed to finally take herself away from the pain and suffering, to a place she could be safe – _happy_ even.

What weak person could do _that_?

So Tony's promise was truly unneeded – he would not be able to take away his life regardless of how much he may wish to at some moments.

There's a knock on the window and Clay doesn't need to check to know who it is. He knew this was coming, after all, from the endless chimes that rattled his phone for the past two hours before he finally just turned it off all together.

The tapping occurs once more, this time louder, and Clay can just imagine the sight of Tony perched precariously on the ledge of his room, brown eyes peering into the darkness in search of any form of movement.

Perhaps if he just continued to lay there, his eyes shut and body unmoving, he could trick his friend into believing him to be asleep – or maybe even _dead_ , although, he regrets that last thought the moment it runs through his mind.

He wouldn't want Tony to find him like that, not him. Never him.

This time words follow the banging, muffled syllables that are lost behind the glass window, but he finally moves nonetheless, fearful that the other's boy actions would awaken his parents. He doesn't need them on his back any more than they already are.

So wordlessly he slowly rises from the bed and drags himself over to regard the very guy that had been plaguing his thoughts that night along with Hannah.

Had he not felt so tired and exasperated, he muses that he might have found it amusing how similar his imagined Tony looked to the real one clinging to the window ledge before him. His gaze bore into him almost in accusation of some unspoken crime, invoking a shiver to race down his spine as he wordlessly unlocked the window a tad bit before returning to his bed.

Behind him he knows the other enters only by a soft squeak followed by the dull thump of boots against hardwood, although still no words are uttered between the two. There is no reason to say anything yet.

All Clay wants to do is lay back down in the lifeless position he had resided in only minutes prior, but he doesn't. Instead he pauses before the side of his bed, the crumpled sheets evidence of the endless tossing and turning that sleep brought him as of the late. And he knows Tony can see that too.

"Don't wake my parents." He finally utters, his voice sounding foreign even to himself as the taller of the two finally breaks the silence, not wanting to speak but also not enjoying the sensation of Tony's eyes glaring daggers into his back, "Okay?"  
When no immediate response comes, Clay finds himself turning around to finally acknowledge the other boy fully, and he looks horrible.

His usually perfectly styled hair fell into frizzy sections across his forehead and dark bags cast a concerning shadow across his eyes and cheeks.

He hadn't slept at all either; Clay realizes as he takes a moment to truly _look_ at his friend. Not to judge or to accuse, but to understand.

During the day Tony always spoke with confidence and ease, appearing mostly unfazed by the events that led to his little tape responsibility, even when Clay yelled and placed false accusations on him. Not once did the other stutter nor display hesitance.

Now, however, with the faint light of moon illuminating the right side of Tony's face, the taller boy realizes that he is not nearly as strong and unaffected by this as he seems. He's broken too.

Tony, on the other hand, remains silent, seeming to be studying Clay just as intently as he is him. It is seemingly minutes after the initial question is voiced that the shorter boy appears to even acknowledge that he had been addressed.

"Yeah…"

The single syllable is slipped almost inaudibly through chapped lips that appeared to hesitate a moment after, opening to form another word before shutting again.

Tony wouldn't ask Clay how he was doing because he knew it was idiotic. Clay was nowhere near the fine that he always replied with, and Tony knew he himself wasn't either. How could they be?

"You're not alright."

Clay can't help but chuckle at that, a vibration eerily similar to the laughter that echoed through him earlier, though he makes no mention of the similarities.

Instead he levels his tired gaze to match Tony's.

"Neither are you."

That was fair, Tony thinks, his feet moving to approach the other almost without his permission.

"Yeah." The shorter boy repeats, arms opening in silent invitation as he stops mere inches before the other, "I'm not."

"I don't think I can ever be."

"I know."

"It's all just so fucked up, you know? The tapes, Hannah dying, Jessica's rape, the whole thing. It's just so fucked up."

"I know."

"I don't know what to do anymore…"

"There's no shame in that."

"How can you act so strong all the time, Tony? You know, it's really fucking annoying."

"Wow, you really do like that word now." At Clay's glare Tony almost wishes he can retract the joke. This is no time to play pretend nor act like any of this is even remotely funny, "It's because it's the only way I know how to deal with all this."

By masking his pain and helping others, Tony could shy away from the feelings that beat at his heart until it physically hurt. It numbed the regret that threatened to suffocate him whenever he was left alone. He wasn't strong, not really. Just too afraid to feel.

"It's really fucking annoying."

"I know."  
"You always do…"

Before either one is completely aware of it they are hugging, both needing the contact and understanding that they could not voice aloud.

When tears drip down in silent streaks to Tony's jacket, he opts against indicating that he's felt the warm water, as he knows Clay can feel the tears also cascading from his own.

There's an unspoken, mutual agreement between the two as they stand there, allowing the pain they shielded from others to escape in tears, because they need this – need to let go without feeling weak or stupid.

They needed each other and knew the other would never invalidate them, as no one could truly understand what they were going through better than each other.

They had killed a girl – indirectly, but damn that didn't matter, not in the end. They might as well have sliced her arms for her, because they both could have saved her, yet they didn't. They couldn't, because they just weren't strong enough.

Neither could deal, so they allowed a broken girl to believe she was unloved and unneeded. A beautiful, wonderful, brilliant girl who just wanted this – the moment they were sharing- with someone who cared about her just as much as they did one another.

So they cried, for Hannah, for themselves, for any and every reason they felt necessary.

They don't know how, but eventually they clamber down to lay in Clay's bed, arms latched around each other as though they were certain they would be alone once they disconnected. Shoes and jackets were discarded in a heap on the floor and they just laid there, together.

Neither one tends to initiate contact normally, so, to feel so safe and secure in another's arms is different, but rather nice, they decide, although once more that consensus remains unspoken. They both just know it.

As the tears cease and they turn to gaze wordlessly at the ceiling, they understand that this – all this fucked up shit that happened- wasn't their fault. It never was.

The only deed they were guilty of was being young and unsure; Hannah did not blame them, not truly, and they knew realistically that they could not blame themselves either.

But still the guilt lingered, in the form of numbing pain that grasped their hearts with a fist so tight and frigid that they believed themselves to be on the verge of bursting.

Perhaps over time they could grow to forgive themselves, as they had never truly blamed the other.

"Thank you…" Clay finally ventures a whisper, light eyes flickering from the roof to instead regard Tony passively, not at all as phased by the other's presence in his bed as he might have imagined he would be, "For everything…"

"Of course, Clay…" Tony's voice is rougher than usual and his eyes, as Clay figures his own eyes are, are rimmed red, yet never looked so utterly _beautiful_ before, "Of course…"

Hesitating for a moment, Clay takes his lower lip into his teeth before rolling over to completely face his friend, fingers moving to gently intertwine with the shorter boy's rougher ones,

"I'm here too you know," He offers, words escaping him slowly, as though he feared he may say something to break the sense of comfort that had settled over them, "I- I mean, I want to be here for you too… To talk and all… To help you…"

At the tentative silence that passes after his comment, Clay feels fear freeze him in his place. Had he said something wrong? Had he _done_ something wrong?

Similar to a dog beaten down too long, the taller boy allows his gaze to flutter down to the mattress as his fingers move to separate from Tony's, only to find them trapped by the other's firm grip.

"I know."

The words, paired with a strong arm moving to rest softly around Clay's waist, is enough to relieve the boy of any stress that Tony had taken his offer poorly.

"That day at the diner…. When I was on Alex's tape, you said it –this - was harder for you to deal with than you could say…. But, can you try? To tell me, I mean…. That is, if you want… If not that's-…" The inquiry, meant to be uttered with strength and assertion, quickly turned flustered, as his words tended to do when broaching a difficult topic, so, when the small rumble of laughter slipped past Tony's lips Clay paused, uncertain as to how he was supposed to take that, "- Should I take that as a no?"  
"You should take that," Tony smiled, head tilting up on the pillow to meet concerned blue eyes as rough fingers clung reassuringly to Clay's lanky ones, "As a later."

"Later? But I-…"

"This is enough, Clay. For now, this is more than enough."

Allowing a slight smile to tilt his lips, the shorter boy found himself growing sleepy within the warmth that both Clay's presence and his bed presented, temporarily reminding him of just how little sleep he had really been getting lately.

"Right now, I just want to sleep, and you should get some rest too, alright? I'll tell you soon."

"Alright... I'll hold you to that…"

Clay couldn't help but smile back at the sluggish expression slowly overtaking the other's face, though he mused that his smile probably looked rather similar.

Right now he felt protected; safe from the haunting dreams of the girl whom slipped through his grasp like the sands of time. He felt as though he could sleep without any concerns, and, whilst he would never know it, Tony too felt a similar sense of serenity.

For within his dreams a girl lurked too, dark, soulless eyes constantly watching the shorter boy with accusation tainting the pupils and the lingering declaration that Tony was the reason she died – that, if he had merely met her outside when he saw her drop the package off, he could have convinced her against her fatal decision.

But now, as the clock ticked and chimed softly to acknowledge the passing of another hour, neither boy was awake to hear it. Instead, both were far too gone, lulled to sleep by the premise that, regardless of what they initially believed, they were not nearly as alone in this as they had thought.


End file.
